


What Came After

by Naroen



Category: Captain Marvel (2019), Captain Marvel (Marvel Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Awesome Carol Danvers, Bottom Yon-Rogg, Carol doesn't know, Dub-con - identity issues, F/M, Femdom, Hero Worship, Military, Military Kink, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rough Sex, THIS IS PROBLEMATIC, Top Carol Danvers, Woman on Top, Yonvers - Freeform, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 21:36:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18060593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naroen/pseuds/Naroen
Summary: She was his recruit. But she was also one of the most powerful beings in the universe, and there was only so much he could do not to worship her.





	What Came After

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah, everybody's seen this movie, right? Of all the many things I've found myself enjoying in it, the fucked up relationship between Carol and her mentor/commander was the one thing I've been unable to let go of. Thus this fic, written in a semi-rush the very morning after I've first seen the movie. Problematic ships are my jam. Please note: YMMV. Slightly OOC for both, I reckon, but the author regrets nothing.

One of these days, he’s going to tell her.  
  
Not while they’re training, no. It would be unacceptable, bordering on the absurd. It’s already hard as it is - harder than it ever _had_ been, to see somebody with a power so immense, so crude, so natural, and being forced to tell her _no_. As her trainer and officer in command, he’s forced not to touch her beyond basic training contact, forced to keep down on all the things he would do to her, that he would have _her_ do to him, had they been other people, other soldiers.  
  
And it would do him no good to follow on the sub-natural feelings he has for her, too - no matter the difference of race, no matter the difference of rank. It would be perceived as a personal fault if he were to fall for his own crewmate, his own trainee, a person he’s supposed to have solidly turned to their side of the war, not somebody who he’s willing to engage in extra-curricular activities with.  
  
Talking to her about it in their few and far-in-between hours off on the homeplanet would inevitably lead to one form of rejection or other and, honestly, it’s been so long since he’d last even tried to court or bed another person, civilian or military alike, that he wouldn’t even know where to begin. Vers, being alien to their culture altogether, seems to have a better grasp on these matters. Yon-Rogg grinds his teeth each time he snatches a passing glance at the occasional woman and man she brings to her room down the corridor and smiles his approval; winks at her, even, for that is the rapport the two of them have. Sometimes, she gives him a thumb and a pinky up in return - some Terran custom she seems to remember, even though none of them can decipher its meaning - and sometimes she just blushes and hides her eyes, ushering her companion through the door. What is it that she sees in his eyes, on days like those? What is it that his face even shows, after such a long time hiding everything else?  
  
It wouldn’t do to confess to her while they’re on deployment, either. The close quarters, the constant edge of being so close to combat and never close enough until it’s too late, are what usually brings him to his knees. He is not a man of great patience, especially not when Vers is the one he keeps bumping into more often than not, in the cramped hallways of the cruiser they find themselves serving on, the first time she’s out there with his unit, in the vastness of space. With any other comrade it would be different, but with her, he can’t stop his thoughts. He can only do so much to avoid succumbing to the urge of cramping her against a wall, leading her to push _him_ against something, hold him down, make him pay for what he’s done to her, what she cannot even remember, and what he cannot ever forget.  
  
The guilt is only a part of why he finds himself beating it out all by his lonesome more often nowadays than when he was a young recruit himself. He locks the doors of his own cabin, a dubious privilege of his rank, falls to his knees in the darkness after he had overridden the lights control, tries to get it out. Some days he tries to suppress it, and some to live it out in his own head, everything, _anything_ , just to stop himself from slipping in front of her, in front of the rest of his crew. If he ever did, he’s fearfully aware, he would plainly, simply, ask her for it.  
  
In the darkness, he doesn’t have to ignore his own desire and keep it down; in the darkness, he can form his words soundlessly, t _ake me, touch me, let me know I’m worth it._ Sometimes he even tries the weird, strange shape of _please_ , for he is nothing if not self-aware.  
  
The problem is, Yon-Rogg is running out of time, and he’s aware of it. One of these days, she’s gonna come into her powers on her own, and she’s going to see him for what he is - a mere foot soldier to her blazing command, a supplicant at the altar of her wit and charm and, more important, just another Kree to fall short when compared to a being who is, by all accounts, supposed to be less than a full citizen of the galaxy. A being who, as those types of individuals sometimes end up being, is actually _more_ than he could ever hope to become, through valor and military prowess alike.

It is no wonder he doesn’t see it coming, on the day everything changes. His crew has just received notice of a new assignment, four hours until departure due to a mishap in inter-unit scheduling. He’s furiously packing his provisions in his own planetside quarters, his nerves already humming with excitement even though it might be a good couple of days before they see combat. He’s never been good at staying put dirtside for too long. His training sessions with Vers are probably part of the reason he’s managed not to lose control in some soldier’s bar or another this time, the sheer willpower needed not to spill everything to her his only constant companion for the whole time.  
  
Packing his second pair of boots as a reserve, he finds himself humming a tune he heard in a shop in the streets, trying to remember the exact sequence as he counts the sets of underarmour he’s supposed to take to follow regulation. Which is why it takes him a few milliseconds to realize that the alert sound is coming from his door, not his own mind.  
  
He lets his duffel fall to the floor and steps over it to slam his hand on the control panel. “I’m busy,” he says without checking the camera, because if it were somebody higher in the command line than him, they’d have used their code to let him know, and this person - this unwelcome intruder, _no, control yourself, you’re not out there yet_ \- had simply rang the bell.  
  
“I’m sorry if it’s a bad time, sir,” he hears Vers’ chipper voice. He softly bangs his head against the door.  
  
“What is it ? Can’t we talk aboard the ship?” he asks through the communication interface, shutting his eyes.  
  
“Of course,” he hears her say in that voice which he _knows_ hides a smile, “but I’ve a hunch you might be interested in what I’ve got to say even before we depart.”  
  
He curses his luck silently. “Come on in, then,” he says aloud and types in the necessary controls.  
  
In the wake of the door opening and closing behind her, Vers looks even more on edge than him, even though her friendly smirk is now fully visible to his strained eyes. “I’d have thought you’d be done packing already,” she teases, hitching her thumbs in the pockets of her off-duty uniform.  
  
“Can’t be bothered to keep a full bag,” he mumbles as he takes a few careful steps away from her, waiting for her to state her purpose. He’s found that he needs to keep a steady distance from her person at all times, less he betray his own feelings. A part of the problem with mentoring her in hand-to-hand combat is the simple fact that there’s no way to avoid colliding with her body. Keeping at an arm’s length away, he’s able to see her powerful, compact form from a vantage point. It’s a trouble all in its own, but it’s been months since he’s finally managed to train himself to keep his gaze on her eyes. “What do you want, Vers?”  
  
She seems to be choosing her words carefully even as she keeps smiling, and Yon-Rogg finds himself growing wary. The tension does curious things to his body, but he’s nothing if not able to keep the possibly _visible_ reactions to himself. It’s not the first time she’s had this effect on him, a thing of great power, too, but _nothing_ when compared to Vers’ abilities. “I’m going to need your feedback on this idea I’ve had,” she says plainly, “because I need your assistance. I haven’t been able to assess your position on the issue in question, before.”  
  
He raises his eyebrows, and she picks one of her more demure smiles to shoot at him next. He’s catalogued them all.  
  
“We’ve no idea how long this assignment is going to take, or even if we’ll be victorious in the end. It is a bit less of a milk run than the tasks we’ve been handed most recently, isn’t it?”  
  
Yon-Rogg shrugs. “The level of accomplishment my crew is capable of is in no way related to the perceived simplicity of the assignments,” he says.  
  
“Whoa, hold there.” She smiles even as she brings her hands up, in a gesture he takes stems from some human custom or another. “I’ve nothing but good words for my crewmates. It was in no way an insult to your command abilities.” Her smile is softer this time, and he’s amazed to note that his body finds it less of a turn-on than when there is an undercurrent of threat in it. “I just feel…” she continues, very slowly, her gaze locked on his, “that it might be a few days before we’re alone again. Especially since there will be _absolutely_ no space to train on the vessel we’ve been assigned, as I understood from the specifications.”  
  
He stomps down on the wariness rising in his gut. “Setting aside the fact that we’ll be in _active_ _combat_ , therefore, not really in dire need of training… what is it that you propose?”  
  
“There is a manoeuvre I’ve heard of a few weeks back, one I’ve been itching to try.” Vers’ smile is as wide as he’d ever seen it, her eyes sparkling with a promise mischief he knows full well to expect from her. “If you’d be willing to lend me a hand, it wouldn’t take long. And it would be such a waste to let it wait until we come back from the field.” Her eyes flashed to the bag behind his feet. “You will be able to go back to your packing in no time.”  
  
He sighs aloud, trying to mask the shortness of his own breath. “What do you need me to do?” He makes sure to keep his voice sounding as bored as it sometimes gets with her, especially when she fails to employ his training advice.  
  
“Just be yourself.” She smiles wider.  
  
He raises his eyebrows again and lowers his hands, showing the palms outwards to her, _bring it on_.

And she does.

Afterwards, panting with his back to the floor, pinned by her powerful thighs where she’s half sitting, half kneeling above him, Yon-Rogg find himself laughing at the ceiling.  
  
“What is so funny?” she wonders, pinning him down further with her palm set against the centre of his chest, as she’s leaning into it with the full weight of her body. She’s not gentle.  
  
“It was not a new manoeuvre,” he says, smiling into her face, even though he’s not really able to get out from under her hold. He knows it because he’s already tried to do so, twice, in the past minute alone. He would have to resort to deceit to get himself free, which he’s planning to do next. Still, he’s more curious as to what _she_ will do. “The thing you did with your feet? I’ve taught it to you, last month. This is only the first time you’ve managed to apply it _properly_.”  
  
“Oh, that?” She sounds a little breathless herself, even though her body does not waver in the slightest. Yon-Rogg is growing increasingly uncomfortable, especially in the regions where their thinly covered bodies are being forced one against the other. “I wasn’t referring to that,” she says simply and tosses her hair back. “Just don’t panic,” she adds, her words soft and quick. She lowers down, bringing him further into the cold, hard floor, and leans in to grasp his mouth with hers.  
  
When she’s setting herself back up against his chest, he observes with awe how his body follows up after her, disregarding his every command, to get another kiss from her. Even as his better manners and saner reasoning are leaving his mind, he finds himself unable to stop, pushing at her while she’s pushing back. There’s teeth, and a gasp, and he finds himself tasting his own blood on her lips, his own lips, as he follows her over into abandon.  
  
Her hands are steady as she undoes her clothes and pushes his aside. Matching garments, matching speed; but he finds that his own body is starting to tremble slightly. It seems to be forgetting how to move, how to stop itself from reaching further into her. As he tries to get up again, get closer, get _more_ , her hands are already done with bringing them together, guiding him to her, into her, and she’s once again free to pin him down relentlessly against the solid industrial plastic. Her strong arms are pushing him down as she follows after him, sinking as far down as she’s able to, her breath hitching, her body moving. He’s gulping for air with a thirst he’s never known before.  
  
There’s nothing he can do as she moves, but to move with her, against her. He watches her eyes as they flutter shut, her lips as they fall open, her expression as it grows heavy with want, with _need_. Her whole focus seems to be in this thing they’re doing together, this connection of flesh and lust, this unspeakable affair they’re undertaking together. He’s unable to pry his eyes off her face as she’s taking what she needs from him, from his body, because he’d never seen her like this. In this matter, he’s amazed to understand that his imagination would have fallen gloriously short. He would have never been able to portray her like this in his mind’s eye, would have never been able to envision her able to give herself in as _thoroughly_ as she’s doing in this very moment.  
  
It takes so little time for her to sate herself with his body that he feels his own regret about it almost as a physical ache. As she’s tensing up above him, around him, her hands on his body clasp down harder, too. He’s remotely aware that he’s finishing, too, his hips moving of their own accord as he’s letting her body ride his out through to the end. He bites down on his lower lip, hard, to contain the shout he’d doubtlessly unleash were he to lose vocal control, too, the same way he’s lost all other forms of control to his wonderful, powerful recruit.  
  
And then she’s done and he feels it.  
  
The first part of her to go is the hand on his chest that had been holding them both steady for the past few minutes. Weirdly, Yon-Rogg finds that being able to breathe with the full force of his lungs is not as rewarding as it would have seemed.  
  
The second point of contact to depart from him is her own hips, lifting up and off of him. His tired eyes watch every movement of her fingers as she’s closing the many clasps on her military-issue trousers back up. She does his own, too, not a moment afterwards.  
  
At this point, there are no more direct contact areas left between their bodies. Yon-Rogg’s back and legs are starting to protest the strain Vers’ has put on them during the fight, and what came after. He’s already feeling the bruises spreading across his sides, under the clothes, and he finds himself dizzy with the strength of his hope that they stay.

When they’re both respectable again, at least outwards, she offers him her hand to help him stand, in the exact same manner as he’d done to her after a training session, countless times. He accepts it without restraint, letting her use her smaller body’s well practiced, grounding sense of balance to lift him up from the floor.  
  
As he stands up, he realizes that there is one point of contact left, after all, because when he looks down into her eyes, he finds them smiling. Her whole expression seems to be deepening with the sentiment, even as her tongue slips out to lick the blue streaks from her lips.  
  
“Now that’s what I’d call a new manoeuvre,” she says, amused.  
  
He can do little but agree, smiling back at her. “I sure hope,” he says, surprised that his mouth still works, “that you’re already packed yourself.”  
  
“I’m always ready to go, as you very well know,” she quips back, and he laughs.  
  
“Ready to save some undercover spies?” He watches her warmly.  
  
“Ready when you are,” she tosses over her shoulder, while she’s turning towards the door. She leaves the room with one final wink of her own.  
  
Her laughter echoes down the hallway, followed by the excited thumps of her boots’ heels. Yon-Rogg absentmindedly raises his fingers to his lips, testing the edges of a bruise that’s starting to form there.  
  
One of these days, he’s going to lose her.  
  
But, strangely, it seems that that day may not come just yet.


End file.
